past simple 11

Sick with conquering, vomiting almost
at the smell of iron taken from the dead
they come to settle, to watch the fire
in winter shake off its crest of smoke;

sickened of towns where Greeks
and Jews come to mutter their alien
gods. They like only to see the women
sleeping by a full hearth, lulled

by the thump of distant cattle, the soft
unintelligible songs of slaves.




			Meirion Jordan

			Little Bilney An Tarbh Breac Dearg I whisper the names of God Caesar's Veterans

			Little Bilney Finally, as he himself was greatly inflamed & he desired to be allured & he burned with that longing he was unable to go silent among the empty corridors that all drew somehow to the tower Then it was time for the cardinal to awake & he was a red-coated serpent a black jangling bear a tiger a sly puddock that he looked the truth out of a man & wrapped it round & around government’s wide stauros After this, on the twenty-seventh day of November he wept in private & was continually on his knees & yet they asked him ‘did you?’ & ‘did you?’ with tender mannerly smiles not willing he should know the gyves that snapped shut about his abducted loving soul After he was thus sworn and examined he could make no sense of himself & he walked out by the fields to see the great multitude of starlings pass deaf in innocence of God & distantly the lifted spike of the cathedral burning with unheard joyful noise
			An Tarbh Breac Dearg for Simon Chadwick And today again here is the sky and the estuary shot with holes by the great light. The people, it is true, are small: they are in the midst of being. And they climb back up the banks of evening to smoke-dark rooms to make the music of those stone sleepers. On harps of hundreds – thousands – of strings, each one so delicate it could split the light from a butterfly’s wing and leave it black they remind each other of what morning smells like in the red room of a mind whose windows look onto the world all year. In such a song the living take up their horns and speckled skin and go down to the water, only to find it still, a mirror admitting this great light again. I wisper the names of God CLLNTHGD\|FDBT CLLNTHGD\|FTHNGHTHR CLLNTHGD\|FTHFLCKRNGLGHTNTHSHPCLCBNT CLLNTHGD\|THTMKSTHCRSSNGSGNFLCKR CLLNTHGD\|WHSLKPSSNGHDLGHTS CLLNTHGD\|THTMKSTHPSSNGHDLGHTSSMFRW CLLNTHGD\|THTPRTSNLBHNDCLSDDRS CLLNTHGD\|THTHNDSTVLTNFRMSCHQRTR CLLNTHGD\|WHFLLSTTHVLTNFRMSNGRNNK CLLNTHGD\|WHHDSTHFRMSNDHSFCFRMM CLLNTHGD\|FDBTGN CLLNTHGD\|FDBTTHRDTM CLLNTHGD\|WHDBTSMNRTRN CLLNTHGD\|THTSNDSSMLLBRDSNSCTSNDSPDRSSMSSNGRSFTHTDBT CLLNTHGD\|THTMDTHSMSSNGRS CLLNTHGD\|THTWLLDSTRTHSMSSNGRSNTM CLLNTHGD\|WHSTMSRFLCTDNPLTGLSSWNDWS CLLNTHGD\|THTSTHRFLCTNNDTHRHNGTHTSRFLCTD CLLNTHGD\|THTKNWSTHRLTNBTWNLLMGSNDRFCLTNS CLLNTHGD\|THTSNMG CLLNTHGD\|THTSNMMG CLLNTHGD\|THTLVSNTHSMRRRSNTHRCLDRGNSFR CLLNTHGD\|THTSNSDTHHS CLLNTHGD\|THTRNGSFRMTHDSCNNCTDPHN CLLNTHGD\|THTGSNNSWRDTNGHTNTHBDSDTBLSFTHWRLD NDCLLNTHSGDTHRM FRTHSSTHNTRFGD FRTHSRTHNMSFGD FRTHSSMWHSPR FTHSNMS Caesar's Veterans Sick with conquering, vomiting almost at the smell of iron taken from the dead they come to settle, to watch the fire in winter shake off its crest of smoke; sickened of towns where Greeks and Jews come to mutter their alien gods. They like only to see the women sleeping by a full hearth, lulled by the thump of distant cattle, the soft unintelligible songs of slaves.
					pastsimple